Fortes Et Liber
by ShadowChik
Summary: [FA] The war has been raging for two years, and Voldemort is winning. Fred, in charge of a resistance camp, is sent Order recruits. One of them is Angelina Johnson. In a world where tomorrow can't be promised, can they give their entire hearts?
1. Prologue

Prologue

"Psst. Fred!"

If it was two years ago, Fred would have stayed sound asleep. If he had even heard the person, he would have batted him away. But it was different now. He rolled over and peered out into the darkness beyond his tent flap. His hand was reaching for his wand. He could feel the cool mahogany underneath his fingers.

A face shrouded in shadow peeked in. "Fred?"

Fred's fingers involuntarily tightened around the handle of his wand before he forcibly pulled them away. "What?" He mumbled into his pillow. The sound was nearly incoherent.

"Package from George." The man had a slight Irish lisp, and if it was two years ago, Fred might have cared enough to call him Seamus. Now it was different and he didn't concern himself so much with names.

Fred silently cursed his brother, and turned over onto his back. Running his hands over his face, he held them over his eyes for a moment. "What time is it?"

The man snorted before grumbling, "Too God damn early, that's for damn sure." Fred heard the tent rustle and footsteps pad away from his site.

Fred cursed for only a second. Then he rolled out of bed while he still had a mind to. He slipped his feet into the first pair of shoes that he came to. They felt as if they were both of the left orientation, but Fred didn't particularly care. Shuffling to the sink in his tent, he ran the water for a moment. Just long enough for it to get cold. He stuck head under the faucet only long enough to soothe his chapped lips and throat before grabbing his cloak and pushing through the flap himself.

No one had to point his toward the package, because it looked as if half of the camp had been notified before he had been. There was a crowd of people gathered around it, and a small owl flitted back and forth from person to person, looking for a treat. Sadly enough, none of them had seen an owl treat in what had seemed like eons.

One young woman turned around as Fred approached. Her wand illuminated her gaunt face as she watched him carefully. She leaned over and whispered something into the ear of the girl closest to her and they both giggled. Fred frowned at them, and their laughing faces froze, and then melted into the blank look that they mostly all wore.

Fred didn't even have to ask the group to excuse him, or shove anyone. They parted like the Red Sea and a path was cleared for walking. There on the ground was a small package. Fred wasn't surprised that no one had bothered to pick it up. George was known for hexing his packages, and the last person who had handled a Weasley box wrong had fallen into a fit, complete with the growth of two horns. Fred had thought that funny for a few seconds, and then grew irritated that his brother had single-handedly fell one of his men.

Just because the prat was commandeering a group of rebels in a relatively safe zone didn't mean that they all were. Fred needed that man, if only for his proficiency in growing healing herbs. Instead, he was sent back to the safe house and Fred got stuck with another new graduate that didn't know a Death Eater from a bunny rabbit.

Stooping, the red-haired man touched the box. It had, without a doubt, come from George. There was no fear of adverse side effects; he just wanted to be close with his brothers and his few friends for a moment.

Fred hadn't been aware that he had drifted off until someone cleared their throat behind him. He suspected that it was Seamus, but he clenched his jaw and bit his tongue. Straightening up, he ran his wand along the edge with a severing charm. The box opened easily. Reaching his hand inside, he withdrew…an envelope.

It was typical George, who always admired the box-inside-a-box prank technique. You make them think that they had solved the root of the problem, but the root of the problem was just the root of another problem. Curious, Fred flipped the envelope back and forth. 'Forge' was scrawled onto the front, and a doodle of a Death Eater being zapped was on the back. It was signed Ernie Macmillian. The jagged lines looked like something that Ron would come up with. If he was alive.

Fred's jaw clenched again, but this time it was against his will. Quickly, he tore the top of the envelope off and, finally, there was the note from his brother. He scanned it as he crumpled the envelope in his hand. With three broad steps, he reached the fire and unceremoniously dropped the envelope in. It was quickly followed by the letter itself.

He watched the flames for a moment, and could feel the crowd watching him. In the paragraph-long letter, George had told him that he was sending Fred more people. Three more people, to be exact. These people would portkey to his camp at five in the morning that very day, and if Fred complained about it to either George or Bill, George would personally come and 'talk' some sense into him.

Fred had to admit that his camp was the most dangerous of the two and a half—the half being the stronghold of Grimmauld Place that was currently being held down mostly by Bill and his wife Fleur. He also had to admit that his was the only one that kept losing people. It wasn't all at once, though. Fred's camp was being picked off one-by-one, and had been since the beginning. But Fred didn't want any more people. He didn't want to put any more Order members in danger—they needed everyone that they could have alive and well. However, he knew that his brothers would not agree. There was power in numbers.

Without another thought, he turned to the waiting crowd. The faces were worn and tired, and Fred saw the truth. He saw that they needed these three new people. He needed them to lift the spirits and to tell stories of the true war. He needed to look out into the crowd and see three sets of eyes that still had brightness and hope and the will to survive. The group needed people, if only three, that were still angry enough to fight to the death.

Fred opened his mouth to say something, but found that his throat was too dry. It made a scratching noise. He swallowed, and tried again. "Time check." He called out, and a half dozen people looked to their watches. "Three-Thirty." A woman called back. Fred frowned and again spoke.

"We need another tent set up. It looks like we've got a few more joining us soon. Three, actually." He told them partially because he wanted to let them know that he cared for them, and had hope for them. He told them partially because he wanted to know how they felt.

His question was answered when a hundred voices rose as one cheer. Those who had not already been awake stumbled out of their tents and looked around sleepily. Maybe he wasn't the only one that appreciated new faces.

A rally cry bubbled to the surface, and within minutes a new tent had been magicked up. Beds had been donated to the cause, and had been dragged into the barely-furnished structure. Fred stood and watched in amazement. The three new recruits had done so much already. He could barely imagine what could happen once they had gotten to the camp.

In the confusion, a very young girl had wandered forward near the fire. Fred had forgotten about the owl, but was reminded when the girl hopped by him, jumping to try and reach it. Fred grinned and picked her up, away from the dangerous bonfire. The girl clapped her hands, but continued to reach for the owl.

"Hoot hoot!" She whined, and Fred smiled a small smile. "Meow" he told her. The small girl shook her head and stretched her hands upward, fists clenching and unclenching. Fred let her, knowing full well that the owl wasn't really an owl. There were barely any owls left that were smart enough to evade Lord Voldemort, and the owls that were, were in the possession of Charlie for international communication. The "owl's" name was Ptolemy. He was Katie's cat, finally transfigured after a long bout of trials and errors. They had all figured if he was smart enough to hide from Death Eaters while his family's home was being ransacked, then he was smart enough to deliver packages.

Fred's arm grew tired, and soon his eyes began to droop. He nodded sleepily to the bird, and told him to "Go back home". Wandering through the thinned-out crowd, he found the girl's mother—who used to be known as Patricia Simpson—and handed her back.

He was delirious by the time that he reached his own tent, and didn't even have the energy to take off his shoes before he fell into bed.

The second time that he was awoken that morning was quite similar to the first. His name was called through the flap of his tent, not hissed, and this time he jumped out of bed with the exuberance of a small child. He ran a hand through his hair and straightened his back in an attempt to look authoritative before he headed into the camp.

Again, there was a crowd. This time it was the entire camp and Fred had to shove his way through. There was too much excitement to be heard or noticed. He nearly tripped over the little girl that had chased Ptolemy the night before and yelped. It was then that the group noticed him. They quieted, and Fred had no trouble reaching the center.

Facing the new recruits, he thought that they looked familiar. They looked as if they might have been a part of his other life—the one that had ended two years ago. But since this was a new life, he decided to start new.

Fred opened his arms in what he hoped was a welcoming gesture and grinned a ghost of the Weasley smile. "Welcome." He had wanted to say more, but his throat tightened and he couldn't help but wonder if he was welcoming these people to a place of death.

Instead of fighting for words, he held out his hand to the first newcomer. She was a short blonde with round, childlike cheeks and big, soulful blue eyes. She took Fred's hand with a weak grip of her own, and her arm went limp in his grasp. She introduced herself as Hannah Abbot, and told him quietly that she could maneuver anyone out of anyplace. Fred told her that he was glad to have someone like her, especially since their last navigator had gotten himself lost in the nearby forest, a sad but true fact.

The next new recruit was a gangly boy who looked younger than himself. His skin was tanned, and he looked somewhat strong for his age. Fred held his hand out, and the boy grasped it in a strong grip and pumped it up and down in an enthusiastic, but uncomfortable way. He told Fred that his name was Kevin Whitby, and that he was fairly good at training owls. Fred told him that he was glad for this, because they needed to capture more owls. Ptolemy wasn't enough for all of them.

Fred didn't even look at the last recruit. He just held out his hand. He didn't want to know this person like the other two; he wanted one anonymous face that it was okay to lose. That it was okay to ignore. The new Order member took his hand in a firm grip and shook it in a calm manner. "Did you know that both of your shoes are for the same foot, Weasley?" the person asked. This, coupled with the normal handshake, made Fred curious. He looked up, and two familiar eyes looked back at him. Not taller than him, not shorter than him. The person was just at eye-level. This person needed no introduction.

Without warning, Fred turned back so that he could see the entire camp and so that the entire camp could see him. Just like he thought, there were three sets of eyes that still had brightness and hope and the will to survive. But only one pair of eyes mattered to him, and they belonged to Angelina Johnson.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It was eclectic. That was what Angelina liked most about Fred's camp. Unlike George's, which consisted of rings of canvas tents with the most important people in the center, Fred's was just a smattering of people stuck in the middle of the country. There were no designated walkways like in George's camp, which were organized by Susan Bones herself, but you could tell from the pattern that the grass was worn where people liked to walk. Looking at the way that the two of them worked, sometimes it was hard to tell that they were even twins.

What Angelina had not liked, however, were the long and worn faces of the people in the camp. Almost as if they had been going hungry for a very long time. It wasn't about how much food that they had been eating, and she could tell this from their eyes. It looked as if they were mentally exhausted, as if it was their souls that were really what was hungry.

Angelina observed this as she sat cross-legged by the fire and ate soup from a bowl that someone had handed her. She normally wasn't any good at reading people. She had no insight into the minds of anyone. These walking talking machines weren't people, though. They had been stripped bare, and were open books. She watched as they mechanically brought their spoons to their lips, and ate listlessly only to keep themselves alive.

In neither of the other camps had Angelina seen such hopelessness and a sense of loss. She had been to all three of them and had stayed as long as she could do any good for anyone who was inside.

Bill had managed to hold down Grimmauld Place mostly by himself. It had once been the stronghold of their entire 'army', and then there were just too many of them. That was when Bill, Fred and George decided that they had to separate. It was also when Grimmauld place had become their hospital and main base. It was the most useful of the three camps because it had a fireplace that was connected to the Floo network, all thanks to a few good wizards and witches who were working inside the ranks of the Death Eaters. In the other two camps the only way to enter them is to either portkey or fly. There were anti-Apparation spells set on them.

George's camp was by far more dangerous than Grimmauld Place. Angelina had gone with his group in the beginning so that she could be with Alicia and Katie. It was situated on the edge of a large forest and was much safer than Angelina had first imagined, because the centaurs looked out for them where their camp brushed the trees. At first, George was easy going and fun. Then came the first attack, before they had managed to finish concealing and cursing and hexing. George wasn't so easygoing any more, and took the utmost care in the planning and operating of the camp. She had been curse-breaking at George's camp for more than a year when he asked for volunteers to move to Fred's camp. So here she was now.

Angelina hadn't recognized Fred when he had walked through the crowd. He looked just like his father, and identical to George--pale and drawn and exhausted. When he came to shake her hand, she noticed deep worry lines on the forehead of this twenty-one-year-old man. Those concerned her. But what really set her on edge was the way that he looked through her as if he never knew her, and when their eyes finally met he looked away with a jerky motion.

Hannah came to sit by her, and Angelina made room. Hannah was hardly the same person that she had been at Hogwarts. Angelina only remembered seeing her in the DA, but she was always small and quiet and she pretended that she was invisible. Now she still looked nearly the same, but something had changed about her that Angelina couldn't put her finger on. Hannah didn't shrink away from people anymore and, as a result, had become a close friend of hers.

"It's awfully quiet around here." Hannah pointed out the obvious in an awfully quiet voice herself. She tilted her soup bowl around and watched the soup settle back in the bottom. "Fred is awfully quiet, too. Just like George was."

Angelina nodded and watched Kevin Whitby, the other new implant, talk to a somber-looking girl in an animated fashion. "Hard to believe that they're the same people." She agreed. Tapping her spoon on the bottom of the bowl, she watched the fire.

"Remember when they were at Hogwarts? Remember The Flight of The Weasleys?" Hannah asked as she set her nearly empty bowl on the ground in front of her.

Angelina looked up at her. The bright light from the fire still danced in her eyes, and she blinked wildly to clear her vision. "Vividly." She told Hannah, avoiding her eyes. The truth was that she did, in fact, remember the Flight. And did so vividly. However…It wasn't something that she had liked to talk about. Neither of them had told her that they were going. She hadn't known. She hadn't even had time to say goodbye.

The sharp point of Hannah's elbow rammed into her ribs and she heard a sharp intake of breath beside her. "Speak of the devil." Hannah whispered into her ear. Angelina followed her line of sight and, sure enough, Fred was walking from his tent. In addition to his youthfulness, Angelina noted that he had also lost his cocky amble. He looked adult, exactly what she had thought before. She noticed amusingly, but without humor, that his shoes were on the right feet this time.

An old man handed Fred a bowl of soup, and Fred took it. Angelina watched as he gave a nod in thanks, but never once looked the man in the eye. It was practiced and precise—Angelina had the feeling that he had worked very hard at the art of acknowledging and ignoring.

Fred held the soup between two hands for a moment, and just looked at it. It was almost as if he was enjoying the warmth, but this didn't make any sense as there was a bonfire, and he was a wizard. He could cast a heating charm anytime that he desired. Then, in one abrupt movement, Fred crossed his ankles and dropped straight to the ground, ending up in a cross-legged position. Angelina started. Not because of the quick movement, for she had seen it many times before, but because of the fact that he was right across the fire from herself. And Hannah. She couldn't forget Hannah, who was currently making a clattering noise as she scraped the sides of her bowl.

Angelina had the overwhelming need to turn to Hannah and tell her where, exactly, to shove her bloody bowl, but didn't dare say anything. Instead, she just watched him across the fire, convinced that the only reason for this was her overwhelming curiosity as to how he became whatever he was now.

Instead of eating his soup like a normal person, Fred just looked into the bowl. Angelina was reminded of herself a few minutes ago, and came to the conclusion that he must be lost in thought. Hannah chose this moment to drop the spoon into the bowl with an air of finality, and to lean back and comment loudly on how dark it was

Fred was yanked from his reverie.As he lookedacross the fire to Hannah, Angelina caught his eyes. Instead of looking away like he did the last time, he held her gaze. The same fire that had been reflected in her eyes a moment ago was now reflected in his. A slight expression of recognition passed over his face, it was barely noticeable…and then nothing. Again, Fred had steeled himself.

Fred had frozen with his head up, face alert and expression stilled. His eyes watched a point beyond Angelina, and she cursed herself for losing him. The full soup bowl fell from his hand and his fingers inched toward his pocket slowly. So very slowly.

That was when Angelina heard the first scream, shrill, mature, and unbroken. It shattered the beautiful night. Fred sprung up without a word, his wand pulled, and with an energy that she was lacking. Her heart dropped into her stomach, and she felt sick.

Then came the second—short, high-pitched, childlike, and frightened. That was when Angelina saw a bit of panic register on Fred's face. There was no doubt that this expression was mirrored on her own.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Fred had thought that he had seen a shadow out of the corner of his eye. It was stupid of him not to have leapt up before he heard the scream. Someone could have been saved. But it was too late for regrets. It was always too late for regrets; they always caused more pain. So he cleared his mind, and sprinted as fast as he could toward where he thought that the scream had come from.

He wasn't the only person with this idea. He never was. Every time there was a scream, a threat, a death, the entire camp came running. This went against all logic that Fred had known before and he took it as a familiar fact now.

He hadn't thought that the site would be so easy to find. It usually took at least a few minutes to put the marker up. But the night was clear. Perhaps it was easier. Fred felt a chill move up his spine before he could see it. Then the night was bright green.

Fred didn't want to look up to see it. He didn't need to; he just followed the herd of people that had stopped in front of a single tent. Just one. Inside, Fred knew that he should be horrified. But instead, he was happy. He was overjoyed that it was one tent. Just _one tent._ Two years ago, he would have been ashamed at himself.

The hoard of people didn't part like the red sea this time. Fred pushed and shoved his way to the front of the crowd, so that he could see the tent. The strangest thing was that nothing looked disturbed. A tent flap moved in the gentle breeze, and outside there was a little stuffed toy dropped on the ground, just waiting for the small child to come to pick it up.

Inside, however, was a different story. On the ground in the kitchen area, laid the body of the woman who might have been known as Patricia Simpson. Two years ago, Fred might have had hope that she was still alive. But now he was older, an adult borne into wartime, and he saw no life in her pale face or her unnaturally bent limbs. The faint green light that was coming through the canvas threw an eerie light over her, and he could see her wand still clutched between her fingers. It was all so familiar.

Fred turned to the other occupant of the tent. He was a middle-aged man. That was all that Fred noted, and all that he hoped to remember. In his arms was clutched a small child. His head was bent, and audible sobs were heard. The child's wrist turned oddly, and it's head slumped onto the man's shoulder. Fred could see that it was a little girl. The man had shut her eyes, but he could still tell that it was the same girl that he had hefted into his arms earlier. It was the same girl that had reached for Ptolemy, and never quite got him.

Fred took a deep breath and held it in as he turned away from the scene. No emotion. A wall. The flap dropped behind him as he walked heavily out of the tent. The crowd shushed, and Fred clenched his jaw before he spoke. "Two." He told them. That was all that he needed to say for the crowd to grow loud and spitting angry. At every death, the same man challenged his authority. The man strode forward.

"You aren't even going to do anything?" The man who might have been called Seamus bellowed at him. "I'm going to march into their camp and kill two of _them_!" He raised his fist, and the camp descended into total and complete anarchy. Witches and Wizards yelled and screamed obscenities, curses, threats to the Death Eaters. It wasn't new to Fred. He handled it like he handled it every other time.

Fred twisted his strong fingers into the shoulders of Seamus's robes and pulled him forward until they were nearly nose to nose. He looked this one in the eye. He looked him in the eye every time. "You and what army?" He shouted, and the mob quieted. "You are nothing to them! They would kill you in a moment. Or worse yet, torture you for information!" He shook this man hard, hoping to bring some sense into him. But it never helped. "Don't you understand? You could kill us all!"

He let the man go, pushing him back into the arms of another. With that, the crowd was mostly quiet. He had asserted his leadership, and now he had to prove it.

A blonde girl was staring at the tent, petrified by fear. Fred knew that she looked familiar—the girl who had just been sent to their camp. He walked up to her.

"I need you to do something." Fred told her quietly. "You're half-muggle, right?"

The blonde bit her lip and looked up at him, but he refused to meet her eye. "Yes." She told him quietly.

Fred lowered his voice. "Put on your muggle clothes, and then report to Brocklehurst. She'll portkey you to London, do you understand?" The girl looked at him blankly, he didn't need to see her to feel her stare. She had blanched suddenly. He continued. "Then travel two blocks east, to Smith Avenue, okay?" The girl began to shake. He put his hand on her shoulder and finally met her gaze. "There is a blue brick house there. Very old looking. Press the buzzer, and man will answer. Tell him that 'Weeds grow in the country.' Got it?"

Underneath his hand the girl still shook and gave no sign that she understood his words. He bent down a little, took a breath, and repeated. "This is very important. Do you understand?" There was the smallest of nods before she abruptly turned and fled toward her tent.

With the intention of heading back toward the tent that had been attacked, he took the long way around it. There were many curse-setters working on the damaged hexes and curses, and it didn't look as if they would have to fear another attack that night.

It was, without a doubt, the two years in the woods on high alert that allowed Fred to hear the running footsteps behind him. It was no Death Eater, there were too many people. "What do you want?" He called, his strides lengthening.

The person jogged faster, and there was a moment before they replied. "I'm half-muggle, Fred." His breath caught in his throat, and he forced himself to keep walking around the serried of tents. But the person kept up.

"Fred, you know that I'm half muggle. You've known for ages." _She_ just kept going. _She_ just didn't know when to stop. _She_ never knew when to stop. "Why didn't you send me, Fred? I was standing right next to her. You knew that Hannah was scared. I'm not scared. I could have done the job. Why didn't you send _me_?"

Because you weren't scared, Fred thought, but didn't say. Because fear keeps you alive. He needed her alive. He was quiet, but _she_ kept pestering him. _She_ always did.

"Well? Why not, Fred?" She demanded. He stopped, they were in front of the tent. The crowd had dissipated, and there was only a few stragglers roaming around who hadn't been assigned jobs yet. He had had enough.

Fred turned on his heel to face her. Avoiding her gaze, he said in a deadly quiet voice, "You were a chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Most of the Death Eaters are Slytherins. They would have recognized you in a second." He was happy with this answer. It made sense. It concealed everything.

As he turned to walk away, he thought that he caught a grim smile on her face. He admitted to himself that he may have been imagining it. What he knew that he had seen, however, was her stooping down to pick up the stuffed animal; a deep look of sadness and regret on her face. They were emotions that he longed to reflect on his own. He knew that he wasn't supposed to see that, but knew immediately that it wasn't his imagination.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It was very early in the morning before Angelina heard footsteps heading toward her tent. They were cautious and light, and she had heard them many times before. As soon as the flap was pushed aside, Angelina rolled over in bed to face Hannah.

"So…How'd it go?" she asked cautiously, aware that Hannah's eyelids were drooping and that she had very dark circles underneath her eyes. She blinked hard, and brushed past Kevin's cot. Kevin just mumbled something in his sleep and rolled over so that he was face-down in his pillow.

Hannah sat down heavily onto her own bed, and faced Angelina. "It was a long walk." She started in whisper, yawning. "Mandy only portkeyed me halfway in, just to let you know. London is a huge city. The muggle part, that is." She didn't even bother to change into pajamas; she just got beneath the covers and yawned again.

"The man who answered the door looked very familiar," Hannah told her in a voice that suggested that she was fading fast. "I think that I've seen him before…" She trailed off, and Angelina could see that her head was sinking into the pillow.

"Hannah!" Angelina hissed rather loudly, and Hannah jumped.

"I wasn't sleeping. Only resting my eyes while I was talking." Hannah informed her, before finishing what she was saying. "At any rate, he looks almost like…Harry Potter. That's probably why it rung a bell." A note of self-assurance rang in her voice, and Angelina willed her just to keep talking. "Messy hair, glasses, tall. Reminded me exactly of Harry, except that The-Boy-Who-Lived is dead. It would've been impossible…"

This time Angelina knew that Hannah was gone to the world, and would not be returning anytime soon, if her drooping limbs suggested anything. This time, though, Angelina couldn't sleep. It had nothing to do with being in a new camp, or the fact that Fred hadn't honestly looked her in the eye once since she had gotten there. It was primarily what Hannah had said just moments before.

Angelina rolled over in bed so that she was on her back. There was a calming white glow, as well as an alarming green haze that shone through the tent ceiling, however thick. Angelina looked at her hands bathed in this light, and she looked pale. Weak. Sick.

It had to be more than coincidence, or at least Angelina thought, that a man that looked suspiciously like the dead Harry Potter opened the specific door for Hannah in London. It just had to be. Angelina also ruled out fate, because that was never a reason for anything, really. The only real answer to the question was that it _had to be Harry_. Harry, who had died in the major battle two years ago, along with Ginny, Ron, and Hermione. His "death" was the reason that they were now squatting like cowards, separated into their own camps.

Angelina had to know. She had to know if she was right. It didn't matter that she was tired, or what time it was. Angelina pulled back the covers of her bed, and her feet found her shoes. As she headed toward the flap of the tent, she picked up the first robe that she had come to. She pulled it over her shoulders and it easily brushed the ground. So it was Kevin's.

Creeping from the tent, she made her way as quietly as she could towards Fred's tent. As she rounded a corner of the crazily-organized campsite, she froze in fear. There stood a wizard, stock still. He held a lantern in his right hand and, acting as if he did this all the time, he pulled it upward so that he could see her face. So that he could identify her as one of _them_. With the light shining in her eyes, Angelina could see that it was Kenneth Towler. He didn't let her say anything, he just stood aside, leaving it a straight-shot to Fred's tent.

There was a light shining inside, and it bathed Angelina's face in a healthy glow. It was so unlike her own tent. She heard voices inside, so she waited until they paused for a moment before she walked in.

Fred was the only one that she saw. In his hand was clutched a few pieces of parchment and he was busily pacing across the dirt floor. At first, he didn't even look up at her. He was too busy examining the scrap of parchment that was on top. "Fred?" She said cautiously.

Fred paused, and then turned on his heel. He looked at her oddly for a moment, then looked back down at the parchment, in what she thought was a thrifty excuse not to meet her gaze. "What?" he gruffly asked.

Angelina had so many questions to ask him: Who had he been talking to? What was the real reason that he had sent Hannah instead of herself? How had they lost contact? Why couldn't he say her name like he used to, letting each syllable roll off his tongue in a smooth way that no one else could duplicate.

But instead, she settled for calmly asking, "Is it true, Fred? Is…Harry Potter alive?"

He looked at her in disbelief, didn't answer. Didn't even ask what she was talking about, or how she knew. He didn't need to, because at that moment Ginny Weasley stepped from one of the rooms off of the living room.

Angelina looked at her for a moment in incredulity. Ginny was dead, and yet she was standing right in front of her, plain as could be. But how could she be? She had been hit by an Avada Kedavra spell in the last major battle. Same as Potter…right? It wasfrightening actually seeing it.

Fred looked at Ginny at an alarmed way, dropping his arm to his side. "Gin, this is against—"

Ginny waved him off, "Fred, she's not a traitor. She's Angelina, for Heaven's sake." Then she smiled. "Hello." Angelina didn't say anything to either of them for a moment or so, she just looked at Ginny. She looked exactly the same, taller and older, perhaps, but she wasn't any worse for wear. She certainly didn't look as bad as Fred did, particularly now, when he was shaking his head at his sister and muttering things underneath his breath.

At once, it all made sense to Angelina. It _was_ Harry that answered the door to Hannah, just like it was Ginny standing in front of her. They were _alive_. But why had the Order lied to them? What were they hiding? Was every other "dead" person just in hiding?

There was a moment before she could say anything. Her stomach turned and she felt herself turn green even without the glow of the Death Eaters' Dark Mark. Angelina took a step, so that her back was against the tent pole. With a shaking hand, she grabbed for it and held on for dear life. Fred looked at her like he wanted nothing more than to chuck her from the tent, but that didn't matter. Angelina stilled her hand, and shoved it into the pocket of Kevin's robe.

"You know, there's a whole host of people who think that you're dead." Angelina told Ginny, her face grim. "A whole bunch of people who want nothing more than to just give up, now that Harry is dead. Now that you're dead."

Ginny bit her lip and looked at the ground.

"I don't want to be the person to tell those hopeless people that you're hiding from them, instead of leading them. Playing dead when most of us have really lost people to them. You're asking for mutiny, especially in this camp. Did you tell the core members that?" Angelina shut her eyes hard for a moment, and when she opened them, Ginny was looking straight at her.

Angelina was surprised at how indirect Ginny was when she said "Angelina, you don't understand. There's a plan. It's…There's always been a plan. But they can't know. You can't tell them that we're alive."

Angelina gave a bark of sarcastic laughter. "A plan. That's right. How many people have you been hiding from us? I know about you and Harry.Is thisHermione's plan? How about Ron? When are you going to sic him on us?" A darker tone permeated into her speech. "My mum? My dad? My sister? Is my brother just pretending to be tortured to insanity? Because I would just love it if he would just cut the act and recognize me, already."

She had almost forgotten about Fred. If she expected sympathy, she got none. He answered her in a stone-cold voice. "Ron is dead and six feet under in the backyard of the burrow. Just like Percy, and our dad."

Angelina blinked at him, feeling regret for what she had just said bubble up into her throat. They had been through just as much as she had, and they still had to manage a camp. They were still responsible for thousands of people. Angelina still had to trust them, where else would she go?

Hurt radiated off of Fred's pale and freckled skin. She reached for him, to hold his hand, to brush his shoulder, just like she always did to comfort him. Just like she always did before the war, before the death and the heartbreak.

Before her fingers could meet skin, he pulled away and inspected the parchment. Idly, he turned to Ginny. "You'd better Portkey back to George now. He'll make sure that you get back to London safely. I have to keep the riots under control. They should be starting anytime now, if that idiot Seamus is doing what he always manages to do."

Ginny nodded curtly and wrapped her brother in a one-armed hug. Angelina noticed that he kept his spine ramrod straight and just nodded at his sister as she brushed the flap of the tent aside. Ginny gave a wry smile to Angelina before melting into the night.

This left Fred and Angelina alone. Fred, flipping through the parchment, and Angelina, leaning against the tent pole.

Angelina spoke up, as was befitting to her nature. "I won't tell anyone, you know. If you need to keep a secret. If it's necessary for everyone. You can trust me. I'm right around the corner if you need help."

Fred wasn't quick enough, and Angelina watched as a palpable look of pain bloomed on his face. He abruptly turned away, his papers dropped to his side and his shoulders slumped in a defeated way. He spoke to the wall of the tent in a flat voice that, like his face, still didn't hide the ache. "Thank you. If we need anything, I'll let you know. But right now, I don't need to know if you trust me. I need to know that you'll follow me."

Angelina watched the back of his head until it was evident that he would not turn around. She was astounded at her inability to read Fred, this person that she had no problem communicating with a couple of years ago. She moved toward the exit to the tent and pulled open a flap. Turning her head back, the few beads on the ends of her braids clacked together in a comforting sound, she said in a quiet voice:

"I do trust you. And I will always follow you, Fred Weasley."

At that she padded out of the tent, letting the canvas fall back into place behind her. However, even the muffled swish of the fabric couldn't mask the sharp choke for breath inside. Angelina knew. She felt the same way.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

George had made him go back to the tent. He hated it when George took charge. Hated it when George undermined him. Hated that his brother knew exactly when these people were going to wear away his toughest barriers, exactly when the loss of blood was beginning to make him dizzy. Exactly when his heart went numb, and when he just wanted to give up on that idiot Seamus and his followers.

The tent was filled with the worst kind of silence—the deafening kind. The type that broke Fred in two and killed him inside and almost made him wish that someone would just reincarnate the riot that had just occurred. The silence gave him two options: Think or Shut Down. Thinking brought back memories, places that he did not want to go. Giving up could mean the end for these people. Fred forced his eyes to stay open, forced his mind awake, by humming the last number one hit that the Weird Sisters had produced. That had been two years ago.

Fred was still humming "Boldness Brewing" when his mirror image pushed through the tent flap. "What the bloody hell _was_ that? Do they do that _every_ time? _Every bloody time?_" George pulled him up by the collar of his robe so that they were looking eye to eye. He felt the top of he feet brush the ground. "You're damn lucky that Whitby came and got me, you know that? They were seconds away from blasting Mandy to get to your tent. _Seconds!_"

George's hands relaxed, and he dropped Fred unceremoniously onto a chair. "Damn it, Fred. Pride has no place in our lives now, why don't you understand that? This isn't about accepting money, or books, or clothes like it used to be. This is about lives, Fred! The lives of people that count on you every day. Why can't you see that? Even _Fleur_ understands!"

Fred couldn't help it. The laughter started deep down in his belly and made its way into his throat. It came out raspy, and broken, and ill-used. But it was still laughter. He curled his good arm tightly around himself as he contorted in mirth. "It's you who doesn't understand, George." His voice came out much the same way. "If I called you for help, you'd just want to send me more recruits. All you'd do is send more recruits here to be killed!"

George set his mouth into a line. "Then we'll combine camps. We'll each be twice as strong."

Fred's mouth twisted upwards in a humorless smile. "Then twice as many people would die in their guerilla attacks."

George sank down against the counter. "Then we'll move your camp." There was a pause in which neither one said anything, but Fred could easily read George's face. He knew why they couldn't do that just as well as Fred did. Fred waited for him to answer his own question. "Because we need your front." George conceded this with wide eyes.

It was then that Fred continued his cold, solemn laughter. "You see? There's nothing to be done about it except to wait and to go by the plan. So you see? No pride in it at all." He sobered. Standing up, he pushed up the blood-soaked arm of his cloak and examined the gash that ran along his wrist and halfway up to his elbow. The gaping hole in his sleeve more than evident. "More clothes that I've gone and ruined. Mum won't be happy." A wild push backward was all it had taken for Fred to loose his balance—right into a stake that was being used to build another tent.

Two years ago, Fred would have laughed at the efficient way in which he had managed to rip both his cloak and his arm open in one go. He would have drawn his wand out of his back pocket and, without another word in his mirth, he would have healed himself. Madam Pomfrey, Saint Mungos, or no. There were perks to having tested your own joke products.

But now, whether it was the lack of food or energy or hope, Fred could feel his eyes rolling back into his skull. He stumbled backwards into the chair that he had just vacated. His tongue felt heavy and drunk. His head sunk forward.

In three steps, George was crouching in front of him and looking up at him with intensity. "I'm surprised that you bleed at all anymore. Worried about clothes? Are you human anymore, man?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulled Fred's completely passive body out of his cloak and left it in a pile on the floor. He grabbed his brother's arm and gingerly pulled it toward him.

Fred watched through drooping eyelids. He didn't move outside of a cringe when George's grip on the outside of the wound grew too tight. What his brother was doing to hurt him wasn't physical. Even the burning sensation in his arm couldn't match the pain that George had brought down on him. Fred inhaled, shuddering, and asked "Why'd you send her?" His words were very quiet and slightly slurred.

George looked up, confused. Fred repeated the question in much the same way. "Why? Why did you send her?" Finally, George pointed his wand at the injury and muttered the spell under his breath. The skin stitched itself back together. Melded back to normal. Except for his torn, bloody cloak, no one would be able to tell that he had been injured at all. He was Fred the immovable once again, ready for the next attack, next rebellion, next death.

George signed from his crouching position and went back to leaning against the counter. Fred was glaring at him. George looked back, unmoved, then shrugged before answering. "She's a curse breaker. We need one in each camp in case we needed to get in, and Bill told me that your last one was Avada Kedavra'd." Fred watched as George crossed his arms and continued in an almost patronizing manor. "And now that I've been here, I know that I made the right decision. You don't have anything. Nothing, Fred. If this is your idea of leadership, then you've gotten something mixed up along the way."

Fred fumed and leaned forward in his chair, still too weak to move. His expression was cold. "I've been trying to keep the deaths down, like I said, George. I've been trying to calm the riots, do you think that they're all as peaceful as this one? You should see it when more than two people are killed." He took a deep breath, and then redirected his anger. "Why did it have to be her, George?"

George stayed the calm of a man who had nothing to hide. He paused, but only in consideration. "She's already spent time in my camp, and a long time in Bill's camp. She needed a change of scenery, you know how she is, Fred. Once her family was attacked…she just…" George sighed. "She just needed to start over again."

Fred could feel the heat flooding his face as it lit in rage. "You sent her here on a _sightseeing holiday_? You sent Angelina to the most dangerous camp of the lot of them because she needed a '_change of scenery_'?"

George hesitated. He crossed and uncrossed his arms and adjusted his weight on the counter. "I thought that she might…I thought…You two had a relationship before all of this happened. Maybe you both would--"

"You wanted us together so that the same thing would happen as happened between you and Katie?" Fred roared, jumping onto unsteady feet. He swayed a bit, and then his knees became sturdy. "You want me to walk around like you do? Like a kicked dog? My guilt just piling up because I was the one that hurt the person that I loved the most?"

George deflated. He refused to make eye contact, instead looking at the floor to his left. "I didn't hurt her." He mumbled without any hint of a defense. Fred couldn't help himself.

"Yes you did!" He accused, jabbing a finger in his brother's direction. "You knew that the curses weren't fully set on the perimeter yet! You knew!" His voice lowered, and he dropped his hand back to his side. "The curse-setters told you not to let anyone wander far from their tents yet, and you did. You killed three people that day, George." Fred's breath came in short bursts, but he didn't stop. "And God help me if I let anyone die because I'm too besotted with someone to see the war going on around me. Because I know anyone too well, or trust anyone too much. Because I hurt for someone that I lost because I loved them too much."

Fred watched as he broke his best friend, his brother, and some how couldn't feel the pain that he expected. Two years ago, he would have been ashamed of himself; he would have made it up to George in the best way that he knew how: planning a most excellent prank or treating him to a firewhisky. Somewhere in the past two years, he had lost whatever it was that set him on the same mental plane with George. How he wanted it back so desperately. Now he realized that they were once two halves of the same whole.

George cleared his throat, and still wouldn't meet his eyes. When he finally spoke his voice was raw, as if he was speaking around a lump in his throat. "Um." He turned around so that his back was facing Fred. "I ought to go. Susan wants to rearrange the tents tomorrow, and that always takes it all out of me." George took a few steps toward the door, and Fred took one toward his hurting twin, magnetized toward him.

George turned around suddenly, so that they were eye to eye, separated by half the room. "You need to get supplies tomorrow. Take Angelina with you, you need her to break the curses. Bill told me that he set them pretty tight the last time, and we both know that you couldn't break a curse if it was made of glass." With that, George turned on his heel and walked from the room, shoulders stooped, head down, and hands in his pocket.

Fred looked out the flap that his brother just left from. His brother. His twin. He watched the tarp blow slowly in the wind, and his shoulders stooped in a way that matched Gerorge. He stood like that until his body cried out it's protests, and he could feel his eyelids once again drooping and his knees buckling.

His tent suddenly made him sick. His stomach churned as he thought back on what he had said to his brother, what he had done to his brother. He said out loud the things that he had always known. He said them on the icy dregs of blood loss, which was like a hangover to him now, and didn't even flinch. But now he felt sick and sour and his insides curdled.

His body still aching, Fred made his way to his bedroom. Placing two strong hands in the metal groove that ran along the bottom edge of his cot, he pulled. At first the cot resisted, and then slid along after him. It wasn't until he had walked through the tent flap and onto hard dirt that he dropped his cot to the ground. Nature didn't seem as if it was closing in on him and, unlike the remains of the argument inside, didn't cling to him. Outside felt relatively clean.

Lifting the sheet from his bed, Fred climbed into his undersized cot. His body welcomed the small comfort, and a small wave of relief settled over him. Gazing emptily toward the dull yellow moon, Fred Weasley sent a silent plea toward heaven (if there was such a place, Fred wasn't sure), asking someone, somewhere, to lead Death Eaters to him in the middle of the night. His position in the middle of the camp wasn't that hard to find.

It was only then that Fred finally allowed himself to succumb to his body's needs and fell into a shallow and fitful sleep.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

It took a second for Angelina's vision to clear as she stepped out of her tent. It was bright and sunny, and far past the time she usually awoke in the morning. The riot had kept her and Hannah awake. She had wanted to help, oh how, she had wanted to help. But Kevin had told them no, to stay where they were. Most of the male population was drunk and rowdy, and he didn't want to worry about rape on top of the murders.

Angelina understood that. Especially after Kevin returned early in the morning, smelling like smoke and exhaustion. He stumbled unsteadily into the tent, and into Hannah's arms. His right eye was swollen shut and he held out his broken wrist toward Angelina like an offering. By the time the three of them had turned over in their beds and fallen asleep, pink tendrils were curling their way over the horizon.

Now Angelina looked up and down the sloppy rows of scattered tents and saw no one. She blinked, thinking that she was missing something, and looked again. No one. Someone yelled somewhere in the distance. And were there people talking, too? Angelina couldn't tell. She walked a couple of rows toward the center of camp. Yes, there were people talking. It was the low hum of people trying to speak quietly. She followed the noise, stepping lightly on cautious feet.

Curiously, a group of people had gathered in the middle of the camp. Angelina had no idea what had brought them here. Was there more bad news? A riot somewhere else? She tried to eavesdrop as she pushed her way toward the center. She caught the word 'crazy' and the word 'dead'. A panic set in as she was able to make out the distinct tent that the crowd had swallowed. It was Fred's tent.

All of her breath 'whooshed' out of her and, without her consent, her steps became more hurried and unsure. She saw red, she saw black, she saw spots, and her arms reached blindly in front of her—she tripped. Angelina felt herself tumbling forward onto something soft and when the falling motion finally stopped, she looked about her.

She had fallen onto Fred Weasley's…bed? It wasn't as if this hadn't happened so many times before, but this time she was confused. She had taken a tumble onto a cot that had been placed outside? And Fred? Her hands patted the twisted blankets in a panic, becoming more and more forceful every time she made contact. She was vaguely aware of people murmuring around her, but didn't pay them any mind.

Finally, she managed to pull the blankets away to reveal a freckled face. "Fred!" Her voice sounded needy and horrified to her own ears. She touched his cheeks, his shoulders. Ran her hands down his muscled arms. Prayed aloud, made promises in her head. That was when he started to stir.

A beatific smile broke out onto Fred Weasley's face before his eyes even opened. "Angelina?" he murmured, his hand finding her cheek even though he was still in the dark.

Angelina inhaled deeply, stopping the fear from growing inside of her. He was okay. Fred was all right. He was alive and well. She placed her dark hand gently over his and turned her face towards their entwined fingers. "I'm here, Fred." She told him. Her voice broke. They were fine. They were going to be okay—

Then Fred froze upon hearing her. He opened his eyes and blinked once. Twice. Angelina looked down at his blue eyes, frightened and regretful, before taking her hand off of his. He snatched it back so quickly that Angelina recoiled. This could not have been the same Fred of a couple of seconds ago. This could not be the Fred who had just shown her passion and tenderness. And yet, Angelina could see as he gingerly sat up in bed, it was. His eyes were once again steeled and barricaded from the inside. She was refused once again.

Hurting in a way that she couldn't imagine was possible, in a part of her chest that she didn't know existed, Angelina watched as Fred picked up both of his arms and ran his hands through his hair—A gasp ran through the crowd at Angelina's back and she forced her hurt back to where it had come from.

One of the arms of Fred's robe had been torn through. This would not have been so alarming if it weren't from the dark stains that ran from the seams of the tear, and down through the body of the robe. Fred had been grievously injured the night before.

An uproar began. " 'E's hurt, 'e is!" a man shouted. "Fat load of good a dead man will do us!" another roared. "What happens when THIS one dies?" one wanted to know. Furious shouts, frightened whimpers and explosive conversation moved through the crowd and, as one, it began to creep towards Fred, still isolated and unprotected in his bed.

At first Angelina let herself be propelled forward, as there was nowhere else to go. Then a voice from inside the living, breathing mob rose to her ears: "He was hurt and he won't tell us what he was doing! They're going keeping secrets from us again!" Angry yells floated up towards the brightening sky. "If they won't tell us, I say we interrogate them!"

Red sparks flew dangerously from the crowd and illuminated the face of the man who set them off: Seamus. The crowd reacted in a way that would make any rabble-rouser proud and the shouts and yells of the properly inflamed witches and wizards frightened Angelina, for Fred was still sitting, confused and taken aback, upon his cot.

Not knowing exactly what she was doing, but angered by something that she didn't understand, Angelina flung herself forward and spun to face the crowd. Before she knew it, her wand was out and she was waving it back and forth. Sparks flew and her eyes lit with anger and a little bit of fear.

"Oh yes." She snarled in her sudden anger. "Hurt him. Interrogate him. Kill him. You'll help our cause, won't you?" Her wand continued to spark, and the voice coming from her body frightened her. "You'll all be heroes, won't you?"

A large man advanced towards her, his mouth drawn grimly into a line, his wand pointed towards the hard, dark ground. Angelina still did not move, although her hand shook of its own accord. She just angled her body so that she was more in between the man and Fred, who was still sitting up stock straight in bed.

"This man is our lifeline!" Angelina's voice rang out, and the murmurs that had perpetuated in the back corners of the crowd and stopped—silent once more. "He has connections to the Order of the Phoenix that none of us could even dream of. If you kill him, you damn us all!"

The man, he had moved so fast that she had barely caught in her peripheral vision. He lunged forward, wand raised towards her. She didn't know what to do; she was trapped between the old tent and the crowd. She flinched in reaction, didn't even have time to raise her wand when a red light flashed past her and the man dropped down flat, stupefied at her feet.

Angelina stood in shock for a moment, and it seemed that the crowd did too, looking down at the man that she should have recognized, could have recognized if his face wasn't having such intimate relations with the dirt. She slowly turned in the direction of the curse.

Fred had risen and was now standing shakily, but with firm resolution, his wand armed raised. "That," he said calmly, something changing in his eyes, "Will be quite enough of that."

The crowd was still for a moment more, before it rose up in anger. The indignant roars and screeches pierced the morning sky, but Angelina only had eyes for Fred, who was now back to looking quite dead and was warily eying the crowd, his wand still raised. For a moment, he had been himself. He had been Fred Weasley before all of this mess. Fred before the responsibility and the age and the deaths. It was the Fred that she danced with at the Yule Ball. The Fred that snuck her into Hogsmeade. It was the Fred that kicked off the floor of the entrance hall, chains dragging and face alive with the prospect of freedom.

It took a close call, a curse that nearly grazed her cheek, to wake her of her nostalgic reverie. She started, and raised her wand once more. This time only to cast a protective charm around herself.

But it was too late. She felt herself being pulled backwards. But instead of a spell, she felt warm fingers about her wrist, and the soft breeze of the tent flap as it fell back into place. Fred let go of her and slowly turned so they were standing eye to eye. Angelina felt her breath catch in her throat; she could feel the strong, unmoving warmth of his body. It overwhelmed her as if she was fourteen again. She was at a loss for words.

Unluckily, he wasn't.

"That was stupid." Fred barked at her, gesturing towards the tent flap, where muffled yells were still managing to make it through the heavy canvas "You've been here how long and you've already managed to enflame a revolt? Unbelievable." Her turned away from her and threw open the doors to his closet. As he rummaged though, Angelina got the distinct impression that Fred was joking around with her. Sarcasm. Like the old days. If it wasn't for his frustrated look and tired eyes, she might have said something back to him.

"Put this on." He ordered, and something black and shapeless was thrown at her from the depths of his wardrobe. She looked at it blankly, and back up at him, fingering the thick material. "Don't argue." This time he snapped. "And let's get something straight, eh? I'm in charge of this camp and these people. Don't you go and try to make any enemies on my behalf. I'm not dragging your ass out of there again. Damn it." He felt the need to grit his teeth for emphasis.

Pulling a garment equally attractive to hers out of the closet for himself, he pulled his ripped and bloody cloak off of his back and threw it unceremoniously to the ground. Angelina opened up her mouth and looked pointedly at the sleeve of the cloak, but Fred's frown grew even more so and he gave her a warning look. "This camp is more dangerous than you realize. I don't want yo—anyone getting hurt if they don't have to."

Angelina felt her face flush as Fred pulled the dark robe over his head and before she knew it, she had stepped closer to him. How dare he condescend her? How dare he treat her as if she didn't understand? As if they weren't in the same boat? Of course none of this came out when she placed both of her hands on his chest and pushed with all of her might.

A stunned look on his face, Fred took a step back, not as a result of the push, but because of the surprise of it all. The brick wall that was Fred Weasley, built up inside and out, barely moved.

Of all the things that she could have said, what came out of her mouth was "What happened to you, Fred?" He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she held up a hand. "And I don't mean your arm! I mean you! You used to adore danger. Love it. You spent your entire life chasing after the unknown and the frightening; it was your livelihood. Fred, it was you."

A strange look had broken out on Fred's face, torn into two. His eyes blinked furiously and his fists clenched. "Angelina." He said quietly. Sternly. A voice that he would never have used on her _before_. "You don't understand. You can't understand. I can't do that…to you."

Angelina continued if he hadn't have spoken, disdain for his actions filling her features. "You are in charge here, in the midst of danger! These people could use your hope in the face of it! So many of your old qualities could benefit the camp, these people. You wouldn't have to quell a rebellion every night. They would fight for you. Under you."

"Your hope. Your spirit. Your passion. Your lightheartedness. Your unpredictability," Her eyes welled up with tears, mourning all of the characteristics in him long dead. "Fred, you used to be so unpredictable…" A tear fell down her cheek.

"Angelina." She heard him whisper this throatily and step a few paces towards her so that there was barely a breath in between them. His calloused thumb and index finger took her trembling chin between them and he bent so that he could meet her downcast eyes. Angelina couldn't bare to meet him much longer than a few moments because they showed so much more than she'd seen out of him in so long: apology, regret, sadness, concern. All of these things were too much, thus she looked away overwhelmed.

That was when she felt his breath on her cheek and she automatically, a reflex not forgotten with time, turned toward him. Their lips met and Angelina sunk into him, let Fred Weasley put his strong arms around her. The warmth spread from her lips to her toes and she sighed in satisfaction as he pulled gently away.

"How's that for unpredictability?" Fred asked against her lips. She could hear and feel every word, meant only for her. The warmth was back into his speech, returned from some dark place, and his Weasley cockiness was back. The small smile that she had felt grow on his lips was mirrored on hers.

"_Now_ will you put on the robe?"


End file.
